Whispers and Wishes
by focsfyr
Summary: A momentary glimpse into the friendship of two Schwarz assassins.


Title: Wishes and Whispers  
  
Part: 1/1  
  
Author: focsfyr  
  
Pairing: Schuldich+Farfarello  
  
Warnings: yaoi, language, sappy fluff (in an odd kind of way)  
  
Rating: PG-15  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them and have no money. No copyright infringements are intended.  
  
Archive: my site http://www.geocities.com/focs_mc others please ask (it's not like I'll say no)  
  
C&C: loved  
  
Many thanks to Mevima, my wonderful beta-reader  
  
::thoughts::  
  
WISHES AND WHISPERS  
  
  
  
The slammed door rattled the apartment, vibrating through Farfarello's whole body and making his hand tremble ever so slightly as it continued casually flipping the butterfly knife open and closed.  
  
Schuldich was back. He could feel it. Nobody else threw such flamboyant temper tantrums. Besides, he could hear the footsteps resounding through the floor, and they could belong to none but the German.  
  
Nagi's steps were light, with an even tread, Bradley's brisk and authoritative. Both hinted at boring and sickeningly normal people, instead of the fucked up murderers they really were. Schuldich...well, at least his walk showed some fucking *character,* twisted as it was.  
  
Schu's steps were cocky and blatantly *there.* He ran up the stairs without care for the noise and walked like someone who knew he was being watched, with an arrogant strut and slight swing to his hips.  
  
He walked like someone who knew he was beautiful, and he couldn't have been more right.  
  
Chain-smoking, drunk, occasionally drugged out...the German was all the more lovely for each of his flaws. True, he was obnoxious and infuriating as hell (you couldn't even get Farfarello to deny it,) but the bitter bite of his humor made it all *so* very worth it and prompted some absolutely *priceless* moments.  
  
And nearly every last one of them had been captured on film.  
  
There had been a box in Schuldich's room full of such 'candid camera' shots. Nagi had trashed the place more than once in his fruitless effort to search out and destroy the Polaroid pictures and other various bits of blackmail material. After the third time the telepaths room had been ransacked, the collection had taken up residence in the one place no one would dare search: Farfarello's room.  
  
Though Schuldich's deceptively beautiful face hid a sharp mind, his effortless abuse of sarcasm and twisted sense of humor weren't quite enough to terrify the other two. He may have been able to drop someone in their tracks with just a twist of the psyche, but Bradley and Nagi were their teammates, and thus not eligible to be killed.  
  
Knives were a threat that had a much more immediate impact as they were very solid, very real and *very* easy to use effectively without killing the subject.  
  
Now *that* made their teammates nervous...and Farfarello himself unnerved them even more because between the Irishman's behavior and Schuldich's commentary, they were never quite sure when one more word would set him off. It didn't help that Farfarello was as invisible to Crawford's precognition as he was to Schu's telepathy. The only one of his teammates that could affect him with his powers was Nagi. The boy's telekinesis could move him, hurt him, whereas the purely mental powers just seemed to slide right off.  
  
A bead of sweat slid down Farfarello's temple and disappeared into his wild, white hair.  
  
He could hear Schuldich's voice now, drawing him from his silent thoughts. Angry German curses were mumbled around a cigarette as the redhead fumbled with his lighter, the grind of the striker finally announcing his success as he turned the corner and stalked through the kitchen door.  
  
The Irishman's lips twitched with suppressed laughter as the pissed off redhead tripped over Farfarello's legs and went sprawling, lighter spinning across the tile floor to clatter against the wall behind the fridge.  
  
"*FUCK!!!*" the German snarled as he got to his knees. Lighting fast, one hand grabbed the leather collar around Farfarello's slender neck, hauling him up until he was nose to nose with Schuldich. "You little *BASTARD*! What the *HELL* do you think you're doing lying right in front of the doorway?!"  
  
Farfarello smirked and watched his teammate's eyes as the steady click of the butterfly knife punctuated the silence.  
  
Schuldich slammed the Irishman to the floor and stood up in disgust, striding over to peer under the fridge in search of his lighter. It was crouched back in the corner at least a foot out of reach, keeping the dust bunnies company.  
  
"Damn it," he growled, and seized a soda from the fridge. Tilting his head back to flip sweaty bangs from his face, Schuldich pressed the can to his forehead, shivering in pleasure as he slid it down his face to cool the back of his neck.  
  
"Hot?" Farfarello inquired from his position on the floor.  
  
He got a sardonic glare in return. "Hot? Me?" Schuldich asked, voice dripping sarcasm, "Of course not. It's only *ninety-eight* *FUCKING DEGREES* outside! Why would I be hot?" He cracked open the can and took a long drink. "Why the hell are you wearing leather pants on a day like this anyway? Sweating hurt God?"  
  
"Take off your shoes."  
  
Schuldich raised an eyebrow. "Why?"  
  
Farfarello stared at him until the older man rolled his eyes and indulged him in his request...and grinned his feral grin when Schuldich's gasp met his ears.  
  
"See?" His golden eye slid closed as the German flopped down on the floor next to him, stretching like a cat to get the cold tile in contact with his body in as many places as possible. "This is the nice thing about having tile floors instead of that cheap-ass linoleum." Farfarello stretched lazily and turned his head to look at his friend...  
  
::Friend?:: he wondered as he eyed the vibrant hair feathered across the cream colored floor. Yes, he supposed Schuldich was a friend...the first one he'd had since he was a child in fact. Perhaps even his first friend ever. During the course of his life, Farfarello had learned far too many times that he couldn't trust anyone, for no one was worthy of trust. The cruelty with which children treat each other doesn't disappear with age, just gets better camouflaged. So the casual betrayals of friendship that occur when one is young do not stop, they merely become better organized and concealed.  
  
Yet Schuldich...Schu was someone that he trusted. He, too, had felt betrayal's sting, but for some reason seemed to trust Farfarello. He kept Farfarello company when he was being punished by that fool American, invited him to help wreak havoc on the household with pranks and word games, sometimes he even snuck in a bag of reefer and they would go out on the balcony to share a smoke.  
  
But more than anything, Schuldich had wormed his way past the insanity everyone saw in Farfarello's actions and decided he liked the person he saw.  
  
Schuldich knew that Farfarello was, indeed, a bit fucked in the head.  
  
Unlike everyone else, he also knew that his mad Irish teammate could control his impulses when he wanted to, and that his silence didn't indicate stupidity, but rather a sharp mind that observed everything and was smart enough to know that people talked around those whom they thought couldn't understand.  
  
The madman was privy to secrets he had no business knowing...and he reveled in it. Whenever Schuldich needed a bit of information, he knew where he could probably find it.  
  
Farfarello wouldn't go so far as to say that they understood each other, but that they had reached an understanding which molded them into a deadly team. Or an infuriating one...it depended on whether you had to fight against them or work with them. Brad and Nagi would claim the latter.  
  
Schuldich started as he felt Farfarello's hand touching his hair. He cast a curious look at the madman, staring straight into that hypnotic honey- yellow eye while Farfarello stared right back, fingers still stroking the fiery fall of silk.  
  
Even against the cream floor tiles, the Irishman looked so deathly pale you'd think sunlight had never touched his skin. His long fingers twined a lock of Schuldich's hair around themselves, gracefully entrancing and ethereal against the vibrant orange strands. They looked better suited to an angel than a bloodthirsty psychopath, even with the small scars that traced their way across the surface.  
  
"Don't you get hot?"  
  
::What?:: Caught by surprise, Schuldich reached for Farfarello's stream of consciousness, and cursed his forgetfulness when he met a daunting barrier. "What do you mean?" He mentally sighed, ::reduced to mundane measures. How degrading.::  
  
"Long hair," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've always kept mine short, but I'd think long hair would be annoying in heat like this."  
  
::Oh.:: "Yeah, I guess it is. It sticks to the back of your neck and gets itchy and sweaty and tangled...sometimes I'm tempted to grab a pair of scissors and just hack it all off..."  
  
His voice trailed off as the constant sound of the knife being opened and closed ended with a sharp *snick* and Farfarello turned to look at him. The German could almost feel that hot gaze burning into his body, infecting him with its heat.  
  
::Shit, what'd I do?:: It was terrifying in its intensity and Schuldich wanted to look away, he wanted to leave, he wanted to run...  
  
He wanted to stay right where he was and drown forever in that sea of burning gold...falling endlessly into the brilliant madness that made -- that *was* -- the eerily striking man before him...  
  
But regardless of that there were feather light touches brushing his hair with a delicious tickle that made him shiver despite the heat. They were reverent and thoughtful, delicate as one is when touching something precious, even knowing that it's more than strong enough to bear the weight of a heavier hand.  
  
A simple gesture, given by a madman to a cynical telepath who had seen the darkest reaches of the human mind and yet still found the courage to trust in the one person whose depths he couldn't plumb.  
  
And the throaty English words spoken with a soft Irish brogue "Don't, I like you with your hair long," kindled a subtle warmth the redhead hadn't felt in many years. Not since he heard his parents' shame and fear of him and his emerging powers had he felt so...cared for.  
  
::Yes,:: he decided, loosing himself in the contented warmth wrapping around him, "cared for" fit the phrase, because "cared for" was something he'd felt before, when he was a small child.  
  
But this simple touch went so far beyond caring, into uncharted territory he had never even dared hope to see. Sculdich had never in his life felt so *cherished*.  
  
OWARI 


End file.
